


Fingerprints on Your Soul

by rosy_cheekx



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fill, Season/Series 01, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tumblr Prompt, this is a new style for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx
Summary: Martin has never believed in soulmates. Or, rightly, he has never believed he has one. He has a mark, sure, an opalite shimmer in the shape of a hand, small and slender, circling his wrist. It grows with him, and Martin assumes, this alleged soulmate.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 235





	Fingerprints on Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> this was so fun to write! i really enjoyed getting to use the more poetic style of storytelling! :)  
> let me know if this is a style you would like to see more of!

Martin has never believed in soulmates. Or, rightly, he has never believed _he_ has one. He has a mark, sure, an opalite shimmer in the shape of a hand, small and slender, circling his wrist. It grows with him, and Martin assumes, this alleged soulmate.

But it doesn’t feel right for him to have a soulmate. He’s never had time for it. Leaving school at 16, his mother has been his world, the only point of connection in his life. And regardless of how they get on (or rather, didn’t), he couldn’t see himself having room for another person to care for. He barely had time for himself.

When he was eight, his best friend was named Rachel. They got married in the playpark one day; Martin’s jump rope and Rachel’s Raggedy Ann the witnesses to their elopement. They didn’t kiss, _gross_ , but they pressed their hands to each other’s soulmate marks. Rachel’s hand was too chubby for the kid-sized hand on Martin’s wrist, and she couldn’t quite get the angle right. Rachel’s mark was on her hip, five delicate purple spots her mum told her were probably fingerprints. “Someone very gentle,” she repeated her mother’s words with pride. Martin wondered what a whole hand on the wrist meant. Probably bad. His mother grabbed his wrist when he was in trouble, dragging him to the timeout corner. That never felt like _true love_ , what Rachel said soulmates were supposed to be.

When Martin was nineteen, he watched Terry, a Northern boy with shaggy hair dyed a black so dark it was almost blue, grab his wrist and pull him into the stockroom of the Tesco’s, and for a moment his heart lifted. But as a boy who smelled like deli meat and tasted like cigarettes kissed him, hands on his waist, he realized it was the wrong hand. He kissed back, of course, though he knew it wouldn’t last.

Martin was twenty-one when he decided not to think about a soulmate anymore. There are plenty of dating apps, people sending pictures of marks to see if they match in color or trying to string together a narrative that rationalizes any sort of reason their touches could be each other’s. He’s always wondered if it’s all self-imposed, someone you like touches you in the right spot and your brain convinces you it’s been them all along. _It’s naïve_ , Martin thinks, _Childish._

His mark is hard to hide; the wrist is fairly conspicuous. Martin has taken to wearing long sleeves, watches, bracelets, even a _very_ brief leather cuff stage, anything to minimize the glaring brilliance of an opalescent handprint, radiating against his freckled skin. Sometimes when Martin is in his flat, in the quiet and the dark, he traces the fingertips with his own, trying to imagine a scenario in which his wrist is held in such a manner, the fingers at such a strange angle. The rainbow of color shimmers in light, hypnotizing to behold.

Martin was twenty-four when he joined The Magnus Institute, though he said he was thirty. He wasn’t sure why that lie had slipped out, but it had felt right to give himself a boost in years, if nothing else to make sure there was sufficient time for all his “degree work” to have been completed. Elias seemed to believe him. Made him seem more professional too, to be a 30-year-old looking for a job, rather than a measly 24. Silly, really. His actual age wouldn’t have made a lick of difference in the things that mattered.

Being twenty-eight years old when he is moved to the Archives wouldn’t have changed the way Jon treated him, for one. Martin was a pro in being accommodating, especially to the people that held power in his life, but damn if Jonathan Sims didn’t make it difficult. The harsh criticism, the sneering glances, the biting words he thinks Martin doesn’t hear _every_ time he listens through a statement for details to research. It all hurts.

_(Sasha hugged him warmly, in that first week working in the archives, promising it would get better; he saw the light blue mark on her palm. Tim had one to match, he noticed the following day, when he had handed him a Chinese takeaway. He had laughed at Martin’s sputtered realization, flipping his hand over for Martin to see and loudly declaring it “the most boring sign of love,” grinning at Sasha’s desk as he said so. He didn’t ask about Martin’s.)_

His age wouldn’t have changed, he doesn’t think, his insistent motivation to make Jon proud. To prove that he is _not_ a waste of space, the way everyone seemed to think of him; that he is clever and capable and he _earned_ that fake degree, godammit. It certainly wouldn’t have changed his choices that night, he’s certain of that. No matter what age he could have been (granted, young enough to climb/fall through a window), Martin is fairly certain he would have always gone back to that flat that night, seen the form of Jane Prentiss for real, in the flesh…or what was left of it. Being 28 or 45 or 30 wouldn’t have changed the viscerally terrifying two weeks he spent locked in his flat, stuffing towels under his door and checking his skin compulsively. His mark was a ridiculously glamorous beacon through it all, like a diamond necklace on a corpse.

Initially, Martin wasn’t sure Jon had a mark. That would require him caring for another living soul and, besides the warm banter he seemed to exchange on occasion with Tim and Sasha, he didn’t seem to be an affectionate man. He wasn’t sure, at least, until he was back in the Archives, trying not to shake as he told Jon what had happened, and he _listened_. Not only did Jon listen, but he believed him, cared fiercely, making him a cup of tea, buying him takeaway, and demanding to Elias that Martin be able to stay in the archives. One night, when Jon was working late and Martin was sitting on the floor with him in flannel, caught up in a debate on whether or not all things could be classified as “bowls” and “soups,” _(“a file is a bowl for statement soup!”_ Martin had insisted, unable to hold back the grin) he felt that delightful, horrible twinge deep in his gut, and _shit._ Of course he would develop a crush on Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, His Boss. But how could he not? Jon’s face was a delightful mix of irritation, erudition, and humor as he tried to entertain Martin’s inane theory. And being there so late all the time had taught Martin to notice little quirks about Jon: his insistence to please others, especially Elias; his stubborn refusal to take care of himself (Oedipus complex much, Martin?); how adorably squished his face looked when he fell asleep on his desk, lips parted in a pout.

Martin let it sit. It didn’t matter. Hard to take someone on a date when you’re living in the basement of your workplace. And besides, he knew Jon didn’t like him, so what was the point? It was great poetry fodder, anyways.

God, but then it happened, like he knew it would. The worms and the screaming and Jon and Sasha. He had been frozen in a moment of fear and confusion, unable to make out the words Jon was saying as he grabbed Martin’s wrist and pulled him to safety, tugging the larger man along behind him. And then they were running and the worms were leaping and oh _god they were everywhere._ Martin faintly registered the ever-growing circular patches on Jon’s trousers, the glimpses of blood-slicked silver like a bullseye.

And then they were safe for the moment and Martin had his corkscrew and cuts open Jon’s trouser and all he could say was _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it hurts_ as he carves into the flesh of Jon’s leg, wishing he could block out Jon’s whimpering cries of pain. It’s not until he and Sasha can wipe away the blood soaked into Jon’s leg that Martin sees it, underneath his crimson-slick fingertips, _precisely_ under them: iridescent fingertips and a distinct heel of a palm, under and around the first wormhole, where Martin had braced the skin for the first incision. He sits back on his heels and glances down at his own wrist again, where Jon had pulled him along behind, and realized that, even as they were running for their lives, something had slotted into place in his mind, a sense of peace and knowing and _yes_. He hadn’t noticed it, what with all the death. Jon must have sensed it too. _How was that the first time Jon had touched him?_

Martin didn’t say anything, and tentatively lined up his hand with the mark again and still. It fit. Even with the strip of Martin’s shirt they’ve tied around Jon’s leg to stem the weeping wound. Martin sighed, in relief and exhaustion and fear, and Jon weakly held out a hand for Martin to take. They watched Sasha peer through the window in the door and squeezed the hand of the other tightly, a message of _hello_ , and _I know_ , and _I’m here_. If they ever got out of here, they would discuss it. Figure things out.

Maybe even get a coffee. 


End file.
